


Nekoma Blues

by aritzen



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6550183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aritzen/pseuds/aritzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yaku forgets the last 4 to 5 years of his life after an accident, but Kuroo stays with him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. T+12 days

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer #1: I read the manga, so there will be spoilers. 
> 
> Disclaimer #2: I'm not an expert in neuroscience or volleyball. What I've incorporated in this fic comes from the few articles I've chanced upon in the past or found on Google during my 5-min fic research. Hopefully I got at least the basics right, but I'm sure the experts will cringe, so I apologize beforehand for everything inaccurate and unrealistic. m(__)m

_Don’t forget us after you graduate, Yaku-san!_

_I can’t even if I tried, you handful lot. Make sure you beat Karasuno next year. I’ll come watch._

 

 

“He remembers getting into Nekoma but not anything after that,” Yaku’s mother told Kuroo over the phone. “He knows. Try to be patient with him when you visit and, well, be prepared.” 

But Kuroo doesn’t know if he’ll ever be prepared for this. 

The car accident happened twelve days ago, on a snowy Christmas, the day before their one month anniversary. In the first forty-eight hours, only the immediate family was allowed in the intensive care unit—which was just as well, because when he could finally visit Yaku on the third day, he almost broke down at the sight of Yaku swathed in bandages, hooked to a ventilator and too many tubes, looking smaller and more helpless than he ever should. 

“We can come back another day if you’re not ready,” says Kai. 

“I’m fine.” 

The florist hands him the bouquet of sunflowers and tulips he ordered, and he nods to Kai. Together, they make their way to the hospital wing where Yaku is staying. 

Yaku regained consciousness two days ago, but the doctor, citing patient confusion, limited the visitors again to the immediate family until today. “We told him some things,” Yaku’s mother said later. “But in some ways, you know more about the past four years of his life than we do. Talk to him. He really likes the paper cranes you and your friends made for him.” 

“Kuroo, this way.” Kai points at the elevators off to one side. 

The door to Yaku’s room is open, but he’s alone, propped up with pillows. He’s still dressed in a hospital gown, still connected to an IV drip, but the obvious bandages are gone. Nestled in his hands is the crochet crow that Sugawara mailed to them last week on behalf of Karasuno. 

Kai motions to him, and Kuroo knocks on the door. The rat-a-tat jars on his ears, and he feels as if a hole is opening up in his stomach. When Yaku sees them, Kuroo lifts the corners of his mouth, but his cheeks are quivering. He can’t smile, not when the blank look on Yaku’s face is so foreign, but he keeps tugging those muscles because if he stops, he’ll cry. 

“Hey, Ya—Yaku. How are you?” His mouth goes dry. _Shit_ , he thinks. He remembered not to blurt out Yaku’s nickname, but he forgot to introduce himself as per the doctor’s advice. _Forgot_. 

“This is Kuroo Tetsurou, by the way. I’m Kai Nobuyuki. We went to Nekoma High together.” 

Yaku’s face lights up with recognition. “Mom mentioned you. She said... She said you brought those presents.” He gestures to the bedside table, where there is a basket of paper cranes, a plush cat, and a plush owl. “She also said... Oh, she also said we played volleyball together.” 

“We did,” Kai replies. He pulls up two chairs and nudges Kuroo. “We brought flowers today.” 

Kuroo jumps. “Huh? Oh, yeah, we did.” He sets the bouquet on the bedside table and sneaks a glance at Yaku, at Yaku’s polite smile, before arranging and rearranging the items on the table. First the flowers are blocking the cranes, then they’re blocking the owl. Eventually he finds the perfect arrangement that would make an ikebana master proud. 

“Were we...” Yaku starts to say as Kuroo sinks into his chair. “Was the team good?” 

“We were,” Kai answers for Kuroo. “We made it to nationals last year, although we lost in the quarterfinals. It was the first time we lost to our ‘destined rival’ Karasuno, so it was pretty frustrating, but it was a spectacular match, the so-called battle of the trash heap.” 

“Karasuno? Crows? Is that why this is a crow?” Yaku asks, studying the crochet toy. “I was wondering. I figured the toy cat had something to do with Nekoma, but I couldn’t figure out the birds. Karasuno. I see. Is the owl also from a rival school?” 

“Sort of. Fukuroudani. We held training camps with them,” Kai explains. “We’re actually working out a schedule for everyone to visit you. In twos or threes. How does that sound?” 

“Oh, sure. Yeah, that sounds good. Great, I mean. Er, Kai-san, is it?” 

“‘Kai’ is fine.” 

“Are you—were you the team captain?” 

“Eh? Ah, no, I wasn’t. I was the vice captain. This guy was the captain.” 

Yaku looks at Kuroo, mortified. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I-I got confused. I’m really sorry. I didn’t—” 

“Yakkun,” he says in a quiet voice. “It’s okay.” _No, it’s not okay._

He believes his heart has stopped, or maybe a shinigami has closed his fist around it, squeezing it, about to rupture it at any moment. _He really doesn’t remember_ , he thinks. He knew it abstractly before he walked into the room, steeled himself for it or pretended to, but it hit him harder than a volleyball spike to his face the instant Yaku started asking about their team. Their team that meant the world to them. 

“I wasn’t that great of a captain anyway,” he hears himself mutter. Kai demurs, but he’s not sure if Kai is reproaching him for uttering something untrue or just plain stupid. Maybe both. 

“Kuroo-kun,” Yaku says hesitantly, sounding like he’s struggling with the vocabulary of a foreign language. “Were we... good friends?” 

What is his expression, and what is Yaku’s? Kuroo can’t see his own face without a mirror, and Yaku’s seems equally out of sight. _It’s Tetsu_ , he wants to say. _You call me Tetsu. I’m your boyfriend. I love you, and I love your smile. Will you let me hold you or kiss you again?_

Instead, he says, “Yeah. Yeah, we were.” 

And he wishes he can forget as well. Forget the way Yaku runs his fingers through his hair when they’re lying side by side, the random hugs he gets from behind when he’s rinsing the dishes, the flutter in his stomach when they laced their fingers together for the first time. Losing all that seems less painful than living with the fact that, in Yaku’s eyes now, they’re just two people who were once in the same places for a time. 

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” says Yaku. His voice cracks, and his breathing grows ragged. As he brings his hands to his forehead, shaking, both Kuroo and Kai realize that something is wrong. “It’s so frustrating,” he rasps, eyes tightly shut. “Why can’t I remember anything?” 

“Yakkun? Yakkun, it’s okay.” Kuroo scrambles to his feet, suddenly at a loss. Instinctively, he reaches for Yaku, but he hangs back with his arms raised, afraid of what will happen. After Kai mentions something about the doctor and leaves, Yaku’s distress is too much to bear and Kuroo places his hands over Yaku’s, repeating that it’s okay, it’s okay, even though it’s not because Yaku’s hands are so cold—god, why are they so cold? 

A nurse rushes in, and Kuroo apologizes and apologizes without understanding her words while she ushers him out of the room. Everything afterward streaks past him until he’s seated on a couch in the hospital lobby, head in hands, puffs of chill January air worming their way under his cuffs every time the nearby automatic sliding doors open. He can’t recall if the nurse handed him his jacket or if Kai did, or maybe he never took it off in the first place. Did he ask to sit down or did Kai suggest it? 

“How do I make everything better, Kai?” he asks. 

He doesn’t expect an answer, but Kai supplies one anyway, gently. “It’s not something you can fix in one day. Nobody knows what will trigger a memory, and it won’t return all at once. Probably the best we can do is to help him find the pieces. It’ll take time. Maybe a long time.” 

He wipes his face with his hands and leans back on the couch. “It seems like you’re handling this better than I am.” 

“Well, Yaku to me is not the same as Yaku to you. Speaking of which, why didn’t you tell him when he asked? You looked awful back there. I think Yaku could tell you were upset, but how is he supposed to know why if you don’t tell him? You aren’t ‘good friends.’ You’re a lot more.” 

“I don’t know... I couldn’t say it. It felt wrong. Like I was taking advantage of him or something. I mean, can you imagine waking up tomorrow and meeting a total stranger who claims to be your lover? I’d freak out. And it sounds like the setup of a bad movie.” 

Kai purses his lips and sighs. “I don’t think it’s quite the same. But don’t force yourself, I guess.”


	2. T-4 years

The first time he saw him as more than Just a Huge Pain in the Ass was during their first week-long summer camp. It was a snapshot, an instant film developed by his retina and then framed and mounted on a wall somewhere in his cerebral cortex, perhaps with the caption _#1_. 

He sat cross-legged on the floor of Shinzen High’s first gym at the end of the second day, flipping through his notes and the notebook he’d borrowed from Fukuroudani’s new manager, tallying the scores and misses of each Nekoma player. Overall, their offense and defense had become less cohesive after the third-years had retired following their defeat in the round of sixteen of the IH prelims. It wouldn’t do, he decided, frowning as he compared the second-year libero’s performance with his own. They were on par, and he felt ambivalent about that. 

A towering form walked up to him and hunkered down next to the piece of paper where he was tabulating the team stats. He lifted his gaze to find Kuroo. 

“What?” he asked. 

Responding with a crooked grin, Kuroo uncapped the pink marker in his hand and scrawled the letters S-H-O on the paper, the “O” turning into a “C” with a long tail flying off the sheet when Yaku shoved his shoulder in outrage. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” 

“Ow. You trying to dislocate my shoulder?” 

“What is this?” Yaku jabbed a finger at the defacement. “Were you gonna write ‘short’? You were gonna write ‘shortie,’ weren’t you?” 

“No way! That’s short for—for ‘simple harmonic oscillator.’” 

“Don’t. Short. You made that up. What the fuck is a simple harmonica oscillator?” 

“Harmonic, not harmonica. Whatever. That’s clearly too advanced for you, so let’s pretend it’s short for ‘shogun.’ Happy now?” 

“I’m. No. Not short.” Yaku gesticulated as if he was debating whether he should punch Kuroo, strangle him, or slam his face into the floor. In the end, he gripped his own head with a deep inhale before he burst out a desperate “Why?!” 

“Well, y’see, I lost a bet with Bokuto.” 

“Huh? What kind of a stupid bet was that?” 

“Basically, it said if I lost, you’d join us for practice tonight.” 

“What the hell? Why am I the one paying the penalty when you were the one who lost?” 

“It’s not my fault. Blame Bokuto. Right, Bokuto?” Kuroo called out to the person wheeling a volleyball cart to the far court. 

“Wassat?” Bokuto shouted back. 

“About Yaku!” 

“Oh yeah! Come join us, Yakkun! It’ll be fun!” 

“That’s ‘Yaku’ to you,” Yaku declared, brows twitching. 

“So there you have it,” said Kuroo. “See you over there.” 

“Hey!” Yaku protested while Kuroo bounded across the gym. Kai approached him, and he pointed at Kuroo. “Did you see that? Did you see this?” He shook the piece of paper that Kuroo scribbled on. “I’m supposed to give this to the coach. Shit, I can’t believe it. There were assholes on my middle school team too, but I’ve never had to deal with someone this aggravating. Have you? What did I owe him in my past life that I’m still paying up in this life?” 

“He’s like that with everyone,” Kai said with a mollifying smile. 

“You think?” When Kai nodded, Yaku sighed and glowered at the pink graffiti. It was largely confined to the margin except for the stroke cutting through the table; the coach would have to live with it. Glancing at the far court where Bokuto was dragging Konoha, he sighed again. 

“You actually want to join them, don’t you?” asked Kai. 

“N-no! What makes you say that? What about you?” 

“I’ll be fine. I can practice by myself, what you taught me yesterday. Bokuto is a great wing spiker, and I know there are things you want to try too. You had a lot of fun this afternoon in the practice match against Fukuroudani, didn’t you? We won’t get to play in a lot of matches as first-years, so grab whatever chance you get. We’re going to make it to nationals, right?” 

Yaku sighed for the third time. “Why can’t everyone be nice and sensible like you, Kai?” 

“Yaakuuu,” Kuroo hollered. “You done yet?” 

“Yeah, shut up. I’ll be right there.” Yaku gathered his notes and, waving the borrowed notebook, hurried after Fukuroudani’s manager. Along the way, he handed the data sheet to the coach, apologizing for Kuroo’s scribbles and mentally vowing to take revenge someday. 

It irked him, the way Kuroo had summoned him to their practice, even if it did flatter him—but only a little—because he’d enjoyed the peace and quiet at the last training camp where Kuroo had left him alone to create chaos elsewhere with his new best friend from Fukuroudani. Kai was right though. Observing the players from the sideline and teaching techniques to others, while highly instructive, couldn’t match the experience gained from playing on the court. 

“So what are we doing?” Yaku asked as he pulled up his knee pads, standing on Kuroo’s side of the court. He had a sophisticated guess, but idiot savants possessed a natural talent for astounding him. 

“Konoha’s gonna set, Bokuto’s gonna spike, you’re gonna stay in the back and do nothing while I block everything,” answered Kuroo. 

“You can eat shit and die,” Yaku replied, eyeing the white lines as he settled into position. 

“Hey,” said Bokuto. “You know what I just noticed? You two have a really fine relationship.” 

“Say what?” Yaku exclaimed at the same time Konoha said, “Are you blind, Bokuto?” 

Facing the net, Kuroo clapped his hands and said, “Alright, let’s get started. Clock’s ticking.” 

Bokuto perked up and backed away from the net to toss Konoha a ball. The first hit whipped past both Kuroo and Yaku and struck the floor, a foot away from the sideline, within bounds. 

Yaku glared at Kuroo. “Didn’t you say you were gonna block everything?” 

“What about you,” Kuroo retorted. “You really gonna stay there and do nothing?” 

“Hey hey! Step up your game, kittens, or you can’t beat me. One more, Konoha!” 

Still scowling, the two of them tore their gaze away from each other and adjusted their positions to correct for what they’d missed. Much to Bokuto’s consternation, Yaku managed to dig the second ball, and the session fell into a rhythm, progressing like a rally. Bokuto was easy to read, and Kuroo, Yaku grudgingly admitted, was quick to limit the course of the spike. It wasn’t perfect, but it was solid. And until the ball almost whacked him in his face, Yaku hadn’t realized he’d been watching Kuroo’s back more than Bokuto’s jump. He twisted his head in time to avoid a bloody nose, honed senses telling him the ball was out anyway, but the motion knocked him off balance, and he landed on his butt. 

“That was a spectacular home run, Bokuto,” said Kuroo. “You alright, Yaku?” 

Yaku leapt to his feet and flexed his knees. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.” _I can’t believe I zoned out._

“Were you thinking about the curry in heaven or something?” Kuroo continued with a sneer. “Bokuto may not be Fukuroudani’s ace, but his attacks still pack a punch. They can hurt a lot. You don’t want any more damage to your already empty head.” 

“Yet,” Bokuto insisted. “Not the ace yet.” 

“Sorry. I’m fine,” Yaku said through gritted teeth, not in the mood to banter. 

“Are you tired?” asked Konoha. “Maybe we should call it a day.” 

“I’m fine. Sorry. We can keep going.” 

Konoha slouched his shoulders and, after a beat, announced, “Well, I need to pee.” 

“What?” Bokuto spun around from the volleyball cart where he’d just picked up another ball. 

“I need to pee,” Konoha repeated, shuffling toward the door. 

“Hurry up, then,” said Bokuto. “I can’t spike without a setter. Hey Yakkun, you want to set?” 

“It’s ‘Yaku.’ And I don’t know how to set.” 

“Then what are we supposed to do? Just wait here? C’mon, Konoha. Hurry up. I’m all jittery.” 

“You could serve,” Yaku suggested, earning him two intrigued looks. He met Kuroo’s eyes for the first time since he fell. “And you could pass. From the back row. It’s not where you usually play, but it’s good practice anyway. It’ll give me a chance to see how much you suck.” 

“Oh yeah? I’ll knock your socks off. Bokuto, let’s show Yaku who’s boss.” 

Bokuto cheered while Yaku snorted and stepped off the court. He wasn’t tired, nor was he perturbed by the embarrassing fall, but he was a little listless for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint. Resting his hands on his hips, he watched as Bokuto served and Kuroo received. Kuroo was good at assessing the ball’s trajectory, but he was obviously not used to the fast, deep balls. When the ball glanced off his arms a third time, Yaku said triumphantly, “See? You suck.” 

“Shut up. That’s why I’m practicing.” 

“Back up a bit. Take a drop step. I said drop step. Open up. No, not like that. Bend your knees more. Don’t rely on your legs so much. Drop your shoulder. The other one, you idiot.” 

Kuroo dropped his arms to his side and straightened up. “It’s impossible to practice like this!” 

“Yakkun’s instructions are confusing me too,” Bokuto added in a deflated voice. 

“Losers,” Yaku muttered and reached for the nearest ball. “Alright, come over here. You need to learn the drop step, but not on the court. Stand here and pass the ball back to me.” 

“Wait, what about me?” asked Bokuto. “Where’s Konoha anyway? Is he taking a dump?” 

“Pretty sure Konoha ran off,” Kuroo said as he moved into the spot that Yaku had indicated. “You were duped.” 

“What? Damn that Konoha. Should I go hunt him down? Can’t you guys include me too?” 

Suppressing the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Yaku called out to Kai, who had been passing the ball against the wall. “Can you practice tracking the ball with Bokuto’s serve?” 

Kai agreed, which lifted Bokuto’s spirits and created a cascade of questions about that drill. While Kai shifted around in the court, trying to keep the ball in his midline so that the ball would go between his legs, Yaku showed Kuroo how to pivot on his back foot and angle his platform to hit the ball coming high. Gradually, Kuroo got the hang of it, able to return the ball to Yaku without him chasing after it and yelling as much. 

Yaku wasn’t sure what compelled him to do what he did next (he would later rationalize it as something to keep Kuroo on his toes), but after a series of successful passes, instead of catching the ball with both hands as he had been doing before he tossed again, he swung his hand in a poor imitation of a spike and sent the ball to Kuroo faster but a bit off course. 

“What the heck?” Kuroo stumbled forward, his fist connecting with the ball but lacking control. 

_Not bad_ , Yaku thought and turned to grab the ball that had bounced over from the court. 

“What was up with that half-assed spike, Yaku? Compared to Bokuto’s, that was like a fly on my hand. No, wait. Maybe a mosquito is more accurate. Or should I say a flea?” 

_Just when I thought I’d give you a compliment..._ Yaku squeezed the ball, but it offered no stress relief, so he hurled the ball at Kuroo, shouting, “I’m not a wing spiker, you ass!” 

The ball smacked Kuroo’s face, and he yelped. He doubled over and pressed his hand against his cheek. “You aiming to become a pitcher instead? Ow, dammit.” 

“Shit. I’m really sorry. I didn’t think it would hit you. Are you okay?” 

“Eh, I’m alright. It’s not like it was—hm?” 

“Hm? W-what?” 

Kuroo was staring at him, both hands now on his knees. It was an unusual angle and an unusual expression, chin up and without derision. Something about it made Yaku uncomfortable. It wasn’t intense, not the type that bored into your soul and forced you to look away lest it zeroed in on all your weaknesses and dirty secrets. It was sort of unfocused, like he was looking behind Yaku, having discovered either the flying spaghetti monster or the post-thunderstorm sunset and its multitude of colors. But Yaku couldn’t turn around to check, locked in place because Kuroo wasn’t looking behind him but at him. 

“Yaku, that look doesn’t suit you.” 

“Wha—” 

Kuroo stood up abruptly and swiveled around. “Okay, Yaku’s back to normal. I’m back to normal. Bokuto, let’s go get dinner.” 

“What?” Yaku asked the air in front of him. 

But he didn’t find the answer until more than three years later, when he leaned over Kuroo lying on his couch and the image resurfaced, lighting up the neurons for wonder and affection.


	3. T+14 days

_How do we remember_ , Kuroo wonders, twirling the DVD case in his hands while he waits for the hospital elevator with Kenma and Yamamoto. Writings about this subject speak of the hippocampus and the synapses, of memory consolidation and memory retrieval, but they attempt to answer the mechanical how, not the logical how. Is it logical? 

Stepping into the elevator, he studies the words he put down on the disk with a sharpie: _Nekoma vs. Karasuno, Battle of the Trash Heap, 67th Spring High Quarterfinals._ Someone in Miyagi who couldn’t travel to Tokyo for the match last year recorded the live TV broadcast, and Sawamura forwarded a digital copy to him yesterday after Kai brought it up. 

A part of him regrets not recording more matches (all of the matches), but another part of him wavers, because the objectivity of a camera fails to capture the subjectivity of an experience—the sweat, the smell, the strain, and the support in shouts and high fives. The pundits didn’t know about Yaku’s ankle that had healed less than three weeks earlier, about how he plopped down next to Yaku and bumped their shoulders together, which led to a jostling contest that ended with him pulling Yaku into a surprise one-arm hug right before what would become their last high school volleyball game. 

_It wasn’t easy_ , he thinks as he walks down the hallway. _It was so hard._

 

When they arrive, they find Yaku’s door partially closed and the lights off. Kuroo peers through the gap, at the small figure and the plush cat that has flopped over near his curled fingers on top of the blanket. 

“Is he sleeping?” Kenma asks. 

“Looks like it,” Kuroo replies, trying not to sound disappointed, but his voice comes out tight and crestfallen anyway. Yesterday, the nurse stopped him in the lobby and shook her head. No visitors. 

“Our luck sucks,” says Yamamoto. 

“We were running late,” Kenma says and gives Kuroo a piercing look. “You’re not going in?” 

Shoulders hunched, Kuroo contemplates the disk in his hand. “I guess we can drop this off.” He pushes open the door, suddenly feeling like he’s ten again and sneaking into the kitchen at midnight. They tiptoe in, and he lays the disk on the bedside table. 

Yaku appears to have dozed off not too long ago, slumped against the raised hospital bed, his head tilted slightly to the side. Kuroo wants to tuck the blanket around his exposed shoulders, but the cannula attached to his forearm makes Kuroo think that he’ll break him if he touches him. It’s a chill that seeps into his bones, the possibility that he’ll never get to tackle Yaku again, to laugh off Yaku’s complaints about his weight and then kiss him. And he wants to leave, to go to a place where there’s a machine that’ll let him turn the dial of time. 

“Yaku-san looks better than the last time we were here,” Yamamoto whispers. “What a relief.” 

“You want to stay here?” Kenma asks Kuroo. 

“It’s okay. We can go.” 

Kenma heads for the door after a pause, and Kuroo trails behind Yamamoto. 

“—roh?” 

Kuroo freezes, gripping the edge of the door. He must be hallucinating, yearning for something so badly that he has willed it to exist as an illusion, but still, he turns around. 

“Are you leaving?” Yaku shifts in his bed and rubs his eyes. 

“Ya—Yaku.” Kuroo crosses the room in two strides. “D-did we wake you up?” 

“I’m glad you did, or else I’d miss you again.” Yaku flashes a grateful smile and presses a button on the patient control system. Gradually, the room brightens. 

“Shouldn’t we let you rest?” 

“I rest all the time. It’s kind of boring here. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He picks up the plush cat to put it on the table when he notices the transparent DVD case. “What’s that?” 

“Oh, that’s a video of our match against Karasuno, the one Kai mentioned the other day. You played in it. You played in a lot more, but this is the only recording we have, and I had to get it from—the former captain of Karasuno. Maybe it’ll help.” 

Simple delight spreads across Yaku’s face, and it reminds Kuroo so much of Yaku’s reaction when he returned from a trip to Osaka this past summer, bringing back a few boxes of okoshi that Yaku had raved about once in high school. Yaku is still Yaku, he realizes as his stomach flutters and his body warms. It doesn’t matter whether or not Yaku remembers. All that matters is Yaku breathing, talking, smiling, living. 

Kenma’s voice comes from the door. “We woke Yaku-kun up, didn’t we?” 

Behind him, Yamamoto looks like he’s ready to burst into tears. “Yaku-shan!” 

“Ah,” says Kuroo. “That’s Kozume Kenma and Yamamoto Taketora. They’re a year younger, and the current Nekoma captain and vice captain.” He pauses. “By captain, I mean the loud person Yamamoto.” 

“WHO’S THE LOUD—” Yamamoto clamps a hand over his mouth, his face turning red. 

“Q.E.D.” Kuroo mutters. 

Nodding to Yaku, Kenma plants himself on the nearest chair and shrugs off his jacket, prompting Kuroo and Yamamoto to do the same. 

“Um, how’s the current Nekoma team?” Yaku asks. 

Yamamoto slams his fists on his lap in excitement. “We made it to the semifinals! Nationals!” 

“It was a fluke,” says Kenma. “Our defense isn’t as solid as it was last year, but we gained a bit in offense.” He glances at Yaku. “Lev—he gave you a huge headache last year. Gave me a huge headache too, but he’s better this year. Shibayama—he plays your position—he’s more confident now. The semifinal is tomorrow afternoon, so they’ll visit you the day after.” 

“We’re gonna become the champion and make you proud, Yaku-san!” 

“That’s not going to happen. We’re up against Itachiyama tomorrow. We already lost to them in the prelims, so either they’ll win again or we’ll lose again.” 

“Wait, that doesn’t add up!” 

“I didn’t know the nationals were going on right now,” says Yaku. “Good luck tomorrow.” 

“It started three days ago,” says Kuroo. “But Nekoma didn’t start playing until the second day. Their first match was so late in the day that it hadn’t even started when Kai and I visited you.” 

“Did you go watch?” 

“Yeah,” Kuroo says in a quiet voice. He actually didn’t want to, not after that difficult visit, but Kai dragged him to the stadium, and then again the next day. They’re fighting for Yaku, even the first-year starter who has never met him, so Kuroo knows it’s not quite a fluke that they’ve made it this far. “Hey, Yakkun, want to watch their match tomorrow on TV? Together?” 

“Together? You’re not going?” 

Staring at Yaku, he thinks about the tickets they ordered in early December, about the empty seat adjacent to his in the stadium. “I’d rather watch it with you.” 

Yamamoto jumps to his feet and pumps his fists. “Yaku-san is watching the game tomorrow! I’m all fired up now! We’re gonna win this!” 

“Sit down, Tora. You’re disturbing the other patients.” 

Kuroo gives Yaku a smile and ignores the tightening of his chest when he sees Yaku’s wide-eyed look of astonishment mixed with incomprehension. He’ll let go, he promises himself, but he won’t give up. “It’s a date.” 


	4. T-3 years

The bell chimed, signaling the start of lunch break, and Yaku placed his forehead on his desk. The cool surface offered one second of relief before it grew warm under his skin, but it did little to reduce the sensation that his head was trapped in an invisible grinding mill. Gritting his teeth, he cursed his luck, cursed the discomfort in his throat, which he’d dismissed on his way to school as caused by the dry air but had since developed into something else. 

“Everything alright, Yaku? You don’t normally do that.” 

Yaku lifted his head. His classmate and the vice captain of the girls’ volleyball team, Yukino, was standing in front of his desk, looking over him with a quirked eyebrow. 

“I’m... just tired,” he replied. 

“Yeah? You look pale. Make sure you rest up properly. Your first IH prelim match is tomorrow, isn’t it? Don’t lose to us like you boys did last year. We’re aiming for the top four this time.” 

Yaku managed a wry smile and plonked his head on his desk again. They were aiming for the national championship, he wanted to say, but the throbbing headache as well as the looming reality drained the words from him. Yukino gave his shoulder a pat and left with a “good luck.” 

In an unusual but perhaps not unexpected move, the coach had selected Yaku instead of the third-year player as the libero for the IH prelims, making him the only second-year part of the starting lineup. Although the third-year hadn’t verbally objected to the decision, his grievance was etched on his face, expressed through the stink eye. Yaku had ignored it, but he couldn’t stomach the possibility of giving up his hard-earned position because of a stupid cold. Wincing, he pushed himself to his feet and trudged out of the classroom. 

He froze at the sight of Kuroo’s back outside the door of the neighboring classroom. _Shit_ , he thought and jerked backward, colliding with someone. 

“Dude! Watch where you’re going.” 

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Wait, Amachi-kun!” Yaku grabbed his classmate’s shoulder. “You were in Kuroo’s class last year, weren’t you?” 

“Kuroo Tetsurou? Yeah. Why?” 

“Can you do me a favor?” Yaku peered into the hallway where Kuroo was examining a sheaf of paper in a classmate’s hands. “Can you find some way to make him leave? I need to go to the nurse’s office, but I can’t let him see me.” 

“What? Why? What happens if he sees you?” 

“He’ll think I’m sick, but I’m not sick. I’m just not feeling one hundred percent. He might not let me go to practice if he thinks I’m sick, but I really have to go to practice today.” 

“Eh, I don’t know him that well, though.” 

“Can’t you come up with some excuse? Aren’t you in the drama club?” 

“What is this? Improv?” 

“Please, Amachi-kun. I’ll buy you dinner.” 

“You seem desperate. Well, fine. You can treat me to Jojoen or something.” 

“I owe you. Thanks,” said Yaku, even though he could hear his wallet crying at the mention of the pricy yakiniku restaurant in Shinjuku. Amachi called out to Kuroo in the hallway, and Yaku hid behind the classroom wall, his gaze meeting Yukino’s and the class representative’s across the room where they were eating their bento. Yukino raised her brows at him and whispered something to the class representative. Growing self-conscious, Yaku closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he looked out the doorway. 

Kuroo glanced in his direction from the top of the staircase, and Yaku ducked behind the wall with an audible gasp while his heart hammered in his chest. At least this time Yukino was busy conversing with the class representative instead of watching him act like a fool. He counted to ten and, not sure to expect, mustered the courage to look out the doorway again. To his relief, Kuroo was gone. Even so, as he hurried to the nurse’s office for a box of Tylenol, the ghost of anxiety clung to him, asserting that Kuroo was just around the corner, waiting. 

Except Kuroo wasn’t, so he spent the rest of the school day half-drowsy and half-miserable. 

 

 

It became obvious by the end of the school day that he was in no condition to go to practice. The painkiller had worn off, and the fever had returned. His whole body ached. The box of Tylenol he’d obtained from the nurse was sitting in his desk, but he didn’t want to take it because that meant he had to move. He wanted to lie down. He wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again. _But IH prelims._ Groaning, he lifted his head from his desk and blinked when there was a person in front of him, dressed in the Nekoma gray pants and black vest. He looked up. Kuroo was looking down, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Ugh.” 

“I know you don’t want to see me,” said Kuroo, “but you don’t have to be so blatant about it. Hurts my feelings, man.” 

“How did you get here?” 

“Yukino came to my classroom just now. She said, ‘Your Yaku is being weird. Go do something about it.’” He raised his pitch to mimic Yukino’s voice but, lacking her sharp timbre, sounded more like Mickey Mouse. 

“She did not say that.” 

“Maybe not verbatim. So what’s this about you not feeling well?” 

“I’m not—I’m... I’m just tired, okay? I didn’t get enough sleep last night. Too much homework.” Yaku hauled his bag onto his desk and sighed, trying to hide his pain with feigned frustration, which turned real when he realized he couldn’t take another pill discreetly before practice. He should stand up, act energetic, erase all suspicion, but he simply sat there, staring at his bag. Why wasn’t that his pillow? Why was he in the same class as Yukino? Why did Kuroo have to come when he knew he didn’t want to see him, and then say things that made him feel funny? Why—

His thoughts ceased when Kuroo touched his forehead with the back of his hand. 

“You’re burning up,” Kuroo muttered and pulled his hand back. “No wonder you were acting weird at lunchtime. Did you think you could go to practice like this? You’re crazy.” 

“I’m—” 

“You’re in top form. Yeah, right. You’re gonna get the whole team sick.” He hoisted Yaku’s bag onto his shoulder. “Alright, let’s go. I’m sending you home.” 

“What? No, I... I can go back by myself,” Yaku murmured when Kuroo shot him an end-of-discussion look. 

“You look like you’re about to keel over any minute now. I’m sending you home. It’s not like I’m playing in the game tomorrow. Come on. Let’s go. Or do I have to carry you back?” 

Grumbling under his breath, Yaku stood up and tried to reach for his bag, but Kuroo switched it to his other shoulder and pointed at the door. Yaku made a face to stress how irked he was, but it had no effect on Kuroo. Life was so unfair. 

 

 

“—ku. Yakkun.” Nudge. “Hey, wake up.” 

Yaku opened his eyes, groggy and vaguely aware that he was leaning against something comfy and warm on a moving bus. He’d taken another piece of Tylenol after they’d picked up a mask from the nurse’s office and delivered a note to the coach. They? He sat up abruptly and stared at Kuroo on the seat beside him. Did he fall asleep on him—literally? 

“Your stop is next, isn’t it?” asked Kuroo. 

“Er...” Yaku looked out the window and spotted the Lawson at the intersection near his house. “Yeah.” 

Kuroo pushed the button to request a stop and gathered the bags on his lap before he focused his gaze on the front of the bus. Yaku leaned back in his seat. If Kuroo wasn’t going to bring up his falling asleep on him, he wasn’t going to bring it up either. It never happened. 

They got off the bus and walked a block to Yaku’s house. Outside the front door, Yaku held out his hand to Kuroo. “I need my bag to get the keys.” 

“Oh,” said Kuroo. As Yaku dug for his keys, he asked, “Are your parents not home yet?” 

Yaku turned the lock on the door. “No.” He glanced at Kuroo. “Well, thanks—” 

“When are they getting back?” 

“Uh...” He considered giving a vanilla answer, like _at six_ , but it was a lie and he was too exhausted to make up a plausible story if Kuroo pressed on with more obnoxious questions. “Mom’s in Osaka for a conference. She won’t be back for another three days. Dad doesn’t live here.” 

Kuroo exclaimed, “You mean you’re living by yourself these few days?” 

“I guess...” 

“Don’t guess! I was wondering why you went to school today. My mom would’ve never let me leave my bed.” 

“I was fine this—” 

“That’s it, buddy.” Kuroo ushered Yaku into the house, one hand on the small of his back. “You’re going straight to bed. I’m not leaving until I’ve made you dinner.” 

Yaku opened his mouth to protest, but it was a losing battle since Kuroo had already invited himself in, so he dumped his bag on the floor and kicked his shoes off. “Slippers are in there.” He indicated the shoe cabinet in the entryway and shuffled into the house, pointing at different doors. “Kitchen’s over there. That’s the bathroom. I’m tired so just make yourself at home.” 

“Whoa! That’s a cool clock.” Kuroo marveled at the wall clock made of frosted glass that displayed time using mathematical expressions. 

“Oh, that. I got it for my mom’s birthday last month. She likes that stuff. She also has a binary clock in her room.” 

“Your mom sounds cool. She’s pretty, too.” 

Yaku was halfway up the stairs when Kuroo said that. He was studying the framed photos on the display shelves, and Yaku smiled at the memories that his mother had captured in prints. There was one for every year since he was born, some taken on a special occasion (his first birthday, his elementary school graduation) and others on a mother-and-son trip (to the family farm in his mother’s hometown in Hokkaido when he was five, to Ayers Rock in Australia when he was ten and his mother brought him along to an international conference...) 

“I thought you were going to make me dinner,” said Yaku. 

“Right! Yes. You go to bed.” 

 

 

It was kind of nice, Yaku admitted as he crawled into bed after changing into his pajamas, and buried himself under the covers. It was quiet, but it wasn’t the hollow, haunting sort that often hung over him when he was alone at night in a three-bedroom house; it was cozy. 

The next thing he registered was a movement in his room followed by some rustling and soft squeaking. Kuroo had set a covered bowl on his desk and was writing on his whiteboard. 

“What are you doing?” Yaku asked. 

Kuroo dropped the marker and spun around. “Holy crap! You’re awake. You scared the shit outta me.” Blowing out a breath, he picked up the marker from the floor and erased the words from the whiteboard, which read _Yaku, I made you dinn_. 

“What did you make?” 

“Chicken congee. My mom makes that when I’m sick, but I couldn’t find all the ingredients in your kitchen, so it’s not as fancy. I made enough for three meals, so just heat it up when you get hungry again.” 

“You didn’t make a mess in the kitchen, did you?” 

“No way! I left it exactly the way I found it, but with an extra pot of tasty congee.” 

“You know, I’m a bit surprised. I wasn’t expecting this.” 

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents,” Kuroo said with a smug grin. “Well, I had to take care of Kenma from time to time when we were growing up. You learn these things. Anyway. I’m heading back. I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon after the match. Don’t forget to take your meds and get enough rest. See ya.” 

“Kuroo...” 

“Hm?” 

Yaku hesitated. “Thanks.” 

Smiling, Kuroo made an OK sign and walked out of the room. 

Yaku wrapped his blanket tighter around his shoulders and listened for the front door to click shut. His heart was beating too fast, and each inhale seemed to require more effort than it should. It had to be the flu, and maybe his rapid heartbeats were, but the peculiar weight on his chest hadn’t settled until Kuroo mentioned Kenma and then left in a hurry. It was akin to disappointment, but it didn’t make any sense. Closing his eyes, he tried to go back to sleep, but his mind kept whirling, replaying Kuroo’s offhand remarks and fleeting touches.


	5. T+16 days

There are essentially two types of amnesia: retrograde, the loss of old memories; and anterograde, the absence of new memories. They can occur together. Kuroo has read about an English musician who suffers from both and lives permanently in the present, capable of recording only the statement “Now I am awake... Now I am really awake” over and over again in his diary. It is chilling and tragic, so Kuroo is grateful that Yaku will remember at least the future. 

The date yesterday was not actually a date, not when the setting smelled like iodoform, but it was a start that Kuroo cherished all the same. They talked about volleyball, about the Nekoma players, about the match on TV, until Yaku, struggling to keep his eyes open partway through the second game, said: _I’m sorry, I’m really tired._ The doctor had warned about fatigue, a sign that Yaku was still recovering, so it didn’t surprise Kuroo when Yaku’s responses became shorter and simpler with longer bouts of silence in between. _Close your eyes, go to sleep,_ he told him. _We’re recording the match, so you can watch it later. I’ll be here when you wake up._

It was disappointing, of course, but it was also reassuring just to be in his presence. Listening to his soft and steady breathing, Kuroo found himself watching Yaku more than he was watching the game put on mute, intense rallies notwithstanding. He wanted to hold Yaku’s hand, press it against his cheek as he’d done in those long days he’d prayed for Yaku to wake up. He wanted to lay his head next to Yaku’s and stroke his cheek, an action that would always wake him up whenever he spent the night at his place. But he didn’t want to startle him, so he tucked his hands into his pockets and fixed his eyes on the TV screen, catching the spike that ended the second game and signaled the beginning of the third and final game. 

Nekoma ultimately lost the semifinal match, the tail end of which Yaku caught after he woke up during the rally where Itachiyama scored its 20th point. It was a frustrating outcome, but in their conversation afterward, Kuroo couldn’t help but hear the first hint of remembrance, however faint, however irrational. 

_Hmm, how should I put this? It’s weird because they lost, but I’m more proud than disappointed. Like the team is in good hands or something. They played well, especially Lev and Shibayama._

 

 

Catching sight of Lev’s gloomy expression, Kuroo sighs and pushes the up button of the elevator. “Lev, can you cheer up a bit? Don’t let Yaku see you like this. You look like your hamster just died.” 

“But we lost. And Yaku-san still doesn’t remember us.” 

“I told you already, didn’t I? Yaku is very proud of you, especially the two of you.” 

Shibayama pats Lev’s arm. “Come on, cheer up. You did a great job. Don’t make Yaku-san worry.” 

“But...” 

The elevator pings, and the doors slide open. It takes precisely a quarter of a second for the parties inside and outside the elevator to recognize each other and mirror the look of revulsion. 

“Who let you slimy bastards into the hospital?” demands Kuroo. 

Daishou, regaining his composure, steps out of the elevator with another former Nohebi player—one of the middle blockers, #5, if Kuroo remembers correctly—and replies, “Yaku’s mother.” 

It’s a punch to Kuroo’s guts, that smooth answer that is probably the truth; Yaku’s mother did ask Kuroo if he knew anyone from Yaku’s middle school (“It might not help him remember high school, but it might offer him some comfort to see a few familiar faces”), but he drew a blank back then, too shaken by Yaku’s condition to recall what he knew. 

Lev exclaims, “That’s bullshit!” 

“It’s true,” says Daishou. “Just call her and ask.” 

“That makes no sense. Why would she ask you to come? You’re not Yaku-san’s friends.” 

“We’re not, but we were his teammates. What? His high school teammates are welcome to visit, but not his middle school teammates? What makes you so special? Oh, forgive me. I forget you are special, so special in fact because Yaku remembers us but not you.” Daishou glances at Kuroo. “Must be hard on you, huh? I can see your broken heart pieces all over the floor and hear them crunching under my feet. It’s a beautiful sight and a beautiful sound. See ya.” 

Lev takes a step toward him and growls, “Why you...” 

“Haiba-kun, please ignore him,” says Shibayama as he holds Lev back. “K-Kuroo-san...” 

Kuroo hits the elevator button again, jamming it down to stop his right hand from trembling, the fingers of his left hand digging into his palm. “I’m fine,” he says through gritted teeth, answering Shibayama’s unvoiced concern, and then amends, “I will be fine.” His eyes sting, and he blinks away the tears (of fury, he insists). When the elevator doors open again, he draws a deep breath and mutters, “That snake had better not have said anything funny to Yaku.” 

After they reach Yaku’s floor, Kuroo sits down on the nearest bench in the hallway and buries his head in his hands, working to collect himself. Lev joins him. He shakes his head when Shibayama asks him if he wants a cup of water. About five minutes pass before he straightens up. 

Lev is sulking beside him, so he says in a tired voice, “Try not to get so worked up when you see Yaku, okay? Lev?” 

“Okay,” Lev mumbles. 

They head to Yaku’s room, and Kuroo pauses outside the door. Yaku is gazing out of the window, at the snow flurries that have begun to fall from the gray-white sky. It’s not as heavy as the snow on Christmas, but suddenly Kuroo wants to pull the curtains shut, as if that could shut out reality and prevent the snow from accumulating in the past. _Don’t be stupid_ , he chides. 

“Yakkun,” he calls out, glad that his voice came out steady. Cheerful even. 

Yaku smiles at them. “Hey, I was waiting for you. That’s Lev and Shibayama, right?” 

“How are you, Yaku-san? Say something, Haiba-kun. Sorry, Yaku-san, he’s still upset about the match yesterday.” 

“I bet, but it was a great match,” Yaku continues while Kuroo pulls up three chairs. 

Perched on the bedside table, a teddy bear about the size of his palm enters his vision, and Kuroo glowers at the abomination, deducing that it’s a get-well gift from Daishou Suguru. He wants to fling it into a fire pit and then flush the ashes down a toilet, but that might be too rude. He regrets not buying another bouquet that he can use to displace the bear, maybe “accidentally” knock it over the edge and, if noticed, confess that he did not see it because it was so small. 

“Kuroo, what’s wrong?” 

He meets Yaku’s puzzled gaze, which shifts to the teddy bear. 

“It’s not the match,” Lev blurts out. “Yaku-san, those assholes from Nohebi didn’t harass you, did they?” 

“Assholes from Nohebi? Who? Are you talking about Daishou and Hiroo?” 

“We bumped into them downstairs,” Kuroo explains, slouching back in his seat, pretty sure he’s as sour as a green apple despite his best efforts not to sound surly. “We exchanged some words.” 

“Oh,” says Yaku, subdued. “Daishou did tell me you didn’t get along. I didn’t think it was this bad.” 

_What else did he tell you?_ Kuroo wants to ask as he searches Yaku’s face, but he only finds the lines of unease and uncertainty around the hazel eyes that are also seeking answers from him. 

“It pisses me off,” Lev declares, striking his lap with his fists. “I can’t believe they went to the same middle school as you. How did you put up with them? You may be scary, but they’re nasty, and they’re a lot bigger than you. They didn’t bully you, did they?” 

“Lev,” Kuroo warns. “Watch your mouth.” 

Yaku is visibly conflicted about how to react, as if he’s fighting the instinct to object to the subtle insult because there’s a need to remain civil. Finally, he says, “It’s not so bad. Daishou’s a jerk, but he knows where to draw the line. He’s actually pretty courteous to his own teammates.” 

Lev scrunches up his face. “But he said some really horrible things today...” 

“Let’s talk about something else,” Kuroo says abruptly. “Shibayama, you brought something for Yaku, didn’t you?” 

“Oh, yes!” Shibayama pulls out four disks from his bag and hands them to Yaku. “These are the Nekoma matches at the Spring High Nationals this year. We really wanted you to see them. They’re filmed with a camcorder so the quality isn’t great, but the TV didn’t show every match. Akane-chan helped us—oh, that’s Yamamoto-san’s younger sister.” 

Kuroo grins. “Instead of the pundits, you get to hear the peanut gallery this time.” _It’ll be like you were actually there_ , he refrains from adding. For Yaku’s sake and for his own. 

“Thank you,” Yaku says, sorting through the disks with a warm smile that softens his expression but dissolves into a faraway look. “It’ll take me some time to get through them. I’m still watching the Battle of the Trash Heap.” 

“Oh, you started?” Kuroo asks. When he visited yesterday, Yaku hadn’t touched it yet. 

“Yeah, I started this morning before... I’m at the beginning of the second game.” A pause. “It feels kind of strange, you know? It took me a while to realize I was on screen. It’s like watching a stranger who looks exactly like you. It’s not eerie. It’s just... strange. No, that’s not the right word. I don’t know. I guess... I guess that’s just a long way of saying I still can’t remember anything. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault, Yakkun,” Kuroo rushes his words. “Don’t force yourself. You don’t have to remember anything.” And then he knows he screwed up when Yaku stares at him, hurt. 

“Yeah,” Yaku whispers, looking away. 

And Kuroo hates himself, hates the world, hates how he can’t do anything to make it better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The English musician Kuroo read about is [Clive Wearing](http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2007/09/24/the-abyss).


	6. T-2 years

His first crush was a cute, short-haired girl in his class when he was ten. He said a grand total of five words to her in the entire school year (“I’m going to play volleyball”) two weeks after he overheard her idolizing “the world’s smallest and strongest setter” who won the most valuable player award at the Women’s World Championship that year. They ended up in different classes after that, and he never learned where she went for middle school. As far as he could tell, she never watched him play, but volleyball turned out to be a ton of fun anyway, so he kept playing as the libero, which he liked much more than the setter position. 

His second crush was Tomatsu Sumi, who was in Kai’s class their first year but was now in his class their last year of high school—along with Kuroo, as if they didn’t see enough of each other already at practice every day. This time he said more than five words, although none of them pertained to volleyball. 

“Sumi-chan, why are you here all by yourself?” he asked, almost walking by her table in the cafeteria, carrying a bowl of miso ramen. She usually brought her own lunch and ate in the classroom with her friends, so it was odd to find her sitting alone and staring at her plate of curry with the same intensity as the sunlight focused by a magnifying glass. 

“Oh, Yaku-kun, hi. I’m, um, deliberating.” 

“About what? Can I sit here?” 

“Oh, yes, please.” 

He placed his tray on the table and sat down across from her, facing away from the table that Kuroo and the others were occupying on the other side of the room. “So, what were you deliberating?” 

“Um... D-Don’t laugh, okay? Okay, so, I was thinking about what our class should do for the cultural festival, and... I don’t know if this is a good idea, but I wish we could do this. I’ve had this idea since I started high school, but the third-years in the science club always had other ideas in the past. Like the bottle rockets and the chemistry demo. We don’t have enough people in the science club this year, so I was wondering if our class could do it, especially since we haven’t decided on what to do yet. But, um, do you think a space-themed event is too crazy? Like, with non-Newtonian fluid and comets and turning our classroom into the Solar System and maybe making liquid nitrogen ice cream? Is it dumb?” 

Yaku blinked, chewing on his ramen. Their class representative had been soliciting ideas on what their class should do for the cultural festival next month, but so far no one had offered any ideas except for a maid cafe, which elicited a collective groan and provoked Yukino to counter sardonically with a worse idea: butler cafe. Yaku swallowed his bite and said genuinely, “I think your idea is great.” 

“R-Really? You don’t think it’s weird? Like it’s... it’s too nerdy for a girl to do this?” 

“Not at all. My mom’s a physicist, so she often does that for outreach.” 

Her eyes sparkled. “Your mother is so cool! What kind of research does she do?” 

“Er, she does something about—oof. Kuroo, what the hell!” 

“Hey, Yakkun!” Kuroo greeted as he slid down the bench and bumped against Yaku, back against the table. “Too cool to sit with us today? Did I ruin your date?” 

“Shut up,” Yaku said, furrowing his brows and ignoring the way Kuroo was pressing their arms together from shoulder to elbow. Ever since their third year started, Kuroo had become more and more like Bokuto in the amount of personal space he invaded as if the boundaries had ceased to exist—and it bothered Yaku that he no longer felt the urge to move away as he would’ve done two years ago. 

When Sumi gave them an awkward smile, Yaku muttered, “Sorry. You know how he’s an ass.” He searched the empty table behind him. “Where’s Kenma and Kai?” 

“They abandoned me,” Kuroo said, slurping his carton of strawberry milk. He turned his head to address their classmate who looked like she wanted to vanish into the void, and Yaku would apologize but Kuroo’s warm breath was tickling his ear as he spoke. “So, Tomatsu-san, what were you discussing with Yaku?” 

Sumi shrank another centimeter, her eyes pleading, so Yaku said, “It’s a good idea, so why don’t you tell him? I’ll kick his ass if he dares laugh at you.” 

“Why would I do that to a young maiden?” 

“Just shut up and listen.” 

It took some more gentle prodding—Yaku pointed out that if she planned to tell the class eventually, she might as well start with the most obnoxious guy in their class and succeed—but she finally began to describe, in a shaky voice, her idea to Kuroo. The moment she mentioned “non-Newtonian fluid,” Kuroo swiveled around on the bench, raised his hand, and said, “You have my vote plus a million more. I’ll personally impeach our class president if he doesn’t agree.” 

Sumi seemed bemused by that proclamation, unsure whether Kuroo was being serious or ironic, but Yaku noted the lack of mischief in Kuroo’s eyes. “He’s serious,” he translated for Sumi, who beamed in response. 

“I’m always serious. No, seriously, Tomatsu-san, that’s a fantastic idea. Way better than Yuki-chan’s stupid butler cafe. I swear she did that out of spite because we made it to the semifinals in November and her team didn’t. Hah.”

“What are you talking about? Amachi came up with the maid cafe first.” 

Kuroo leaned heavily against Yaku, inspecting the ramen, and clicked his tongue. “Should’ve gotten the shoyu ramen.” 

“I like miso ramen.” 

“Uh-huh.” Flashing a Cheshire grin, Kuroo delivered his milk carton to Yaku’s mouth. “Want some?” 

The straw touched his lips, and Yaku jerked away. “No! I hate strawberry milk.” 

“You’re missing out, man.” Kuroo slurped the milk as if to demonstrate his point. 

“And what exactly am I missing out on?” 

“The truth of strawberry milk. Hey, Tomatsu-san, do you think we can make liquid nitrogen ice cream at your event? I really want to try some liquid nitrogen ice cream. It’s my dream.” 

_Your dream?_ Yaku thought in disbelief, trying not to notice Kuroo’s leg pressed against his like it was the most natural thing to do. Was Kuroo unaware of it or was he doing it on purpose? Yet Yaku found himself leaning into it (purely to balance Kuroo’s weight, purely) even though it was a furnace he was touching, one side burning, dangerously alluring. 

“I-It’s my dream too,” Sumi said excitedly, and Yaku nearly choked on his ramen. 

“Great minds think alike, yeah!” 

“But,” Sumi continued dejectedly, “I don’t know how we can get liquid nitrogen. Actually, liquid nitrogen itself is pretty cheap, but the dewar is too expensive for our budget. I don’t think our school has a dewar we can borrow.” 

“No! There goes our dream. Tomatsu-san, this is a great tragedy. Yakkun, why do you look so unimpressed? Our chance to taste exquisite ice cream—gone!” 

“It’s not that exquisite,” Yaku remarked. 

Kuroo squinted at him. “How do you know that?” 

“My mom makes it sometimes for her departmental socials. It looks cool, but it’s just ice cream.” Then it occurred to him. “Oh, you know what? We could probably get liquid nitrogen from my mom’s lab. I’d have to ask her first though.” 

“I love you, Yakkun!” Kuroo declared while Sumi clasped her hands together and cried, “Yaku-kun, you’re our savior and the champion of science!” 

 

 

The class voted unanimously in favor of Sumi’s idea. Just as Yaku gave her a thumbs up, Kuroo volunteered him and himself to be in charge of the liquid nitrogen ice cream. Yaku barked out an objection to being voluntold, but Kuroo and the class willfully ignored it. So Sunday rolled around, and Yaku was in his mother’s lab, waiting for the dewar to fill while the two nerds in his life chattered about neutrino oscillations and photomultiplier tubes. 

They didn’t have practice that day, so it shouldn’t have caught him off-guard, but it did anyway, when Kuroo showed up, wearing glasses. Yaku knew about them because Kuroo wore them before bed at the training camps, but he acquired an unexpected air of sophistication when he combined them with sweater and pants instead of T-shirt and shorts. He looked smart, mature, attractive. 

_Not. That he’s any of those_ , Yaku thought, his face warming. He jiggled the transfer line as if the dewar would fill faster that way. After tapping his foot several times, the liquid nitrogen began to overflow the dewar, droplets skittering across the floor and bubbling as they evaporated. He twisted the valve shut, putting an end to the high-pitched whine, removed the transfer line, and capped the dewar. Removing his face shield and his gloves, he said to the room, “Done.” 

“Take those with you, Morisuke,” his mom said when he returned the gloves and the goggles to their containers. “Take an extra pair for Tetsurou-kun too.” 

“Right, safety first,” said Yaku, taking them out again. Kuroo gestured for them and stuffed them into his backpack. 

“Be careful not to spill any on yourself, and keep a window open for ventilation.” 

Yaku picked up the dewar. “Got it, Mom.” 

“If you boys behave, I’ll give you some liquid argon for the cultural festival.” 

“Liquid argon ice cream?” Kuroo exclaimed, sounding like a five-year-old who just found out they were going to Disneyland. “That sounds exotic.” 

Yaku’s mother grinned. “It does, doesn’t it? It tastes better too. Fluffier. If you come back in two years, I’ll treat you to alcoholic liquid nitrogen ice cream made from Licor 43.” 

“Okay!” Kuroo saluted while Yaku complained, “Mom.” 

Alcohol aside, two years was a long way away. Who knew where they would be then? 

 

 

He didn’t think about it much: life after high school. In elementary school, he looked forward to middle school; in middle school, he looked forward to high school; in high school, he thought about university only when he had to—when he met with the counselor, when his mom asked, when they lost in the IH prelims. They didn’t discuss it much either, just a simple exchange: _Spring High? Yes._

Studying was studying, however, a peripheral reminder of the future but otherwise the routine life of a student. Homework, exams, homework, exams. 

Yaku set two mugs of hot chocolate on the dining table and pulled out his chair, the two of them sitting by the corner to work on their homework. Earlier, they practiced preparing liquid nitrogen ice cream, one person pouring the cryogenic fluid and the other stirring the ice cream mix. They’d mastered the art, or so Kuroo claimed after they tested what they made. 

_This is the best ice cream I’ve ever had. Don’t you agree?_

_It tastes just like regular ice cream._

_You’re not tasting our science effort, Yakkun._

_Eh._

_Don’t you think this is the coolest thing we’ve done? Get it, coolest?_

_No._

_You have no sense of humor. Hey, you finished your homework yet?_

_Not yet. Why?_

_Wanna work on it together?_

It wasn’t something they’d done before, but Yaku couldn’t come up with an excuse to say no, so he nodded and grabbed some snacks from the kitchen. For a while, only the ticking of the clock and the scratching of pens on paper filled the room with the occasional crunching of crackers. 

“Yaku,” Kuroo said when Yaku returned from the kitchen with a glass of water. 

“Yeah?” 

“You staying in Tokyo after graduation?” 

Yaku stared at Kuroo, whose pen continued to move across the paper, intent on solving that differential equation. “Probably,” he replied. The counselor recommended a few universities outside of Tokyo as well, but Tokyo was home, where he had family and friends and... And what? 

“I am,” said Kuroo. 

Yaku stared at him some more, wondering if he was supposed to act on that piece of information. Say _okay_? Ask _which school_? State _I will too_? Then it dawned on him that he would miss Kuroo terribly if he didn’t see him every day, that he had no idea when they last spent time together like this. Without the third-years, without the second-years, without the first-years that troubled them so. 

Just the two of them. 

Meeting his gaze, Kuroo nudged his foot under the table and hooked their ankles together, mouth curving into a lopsided grin. “What’re you looking at?” 

“Nothing,” Yaku mumbled and tried to read the next problem in his chemistry homework. The first word was “Consider,” and that was all he could parse because Kuroo’s leg was warm and the heat was traveling up his limb like a flame on a fuse. 

“You’re blushing.” 

“What? No, I’m not. Get your eyes checked.” 

“You totally are. Red as a beet.” 

“I’m not, you ass!” 

“Ow! Okay, fine, you’re not. Geez, you didn’t have to kick me.” 

Yaku huffed, well aware that his cheeks were burning, and pulled his feet up onto his seat. The first word was still “Consider,” but now all he could consider was how annoying and exasperating and obnoxious Kuroo was, how unfair it was that Kuroo just barged into his life and became this nagging presence that he could no longer seem to do without, and how stupid he was for breaking the contact between them because it was nice even though it was distracting and gave him tingling senses in the wrong places, and he wanted to go back there because if he were perfectly honest with himself, he would admit he liked it and it made him happy and—

And he finally understood what his mother said when his ten-year-old self asked her what it meant to fall in love with someone. 

_What does it mean? Hmm, it just means you’re very, very happy to be with that person._

_But I thought it also made a lot of people unhappy._

_It’s not love that’s doing that, Morisuke. It’s the baggage that comes with love, and it’s a very heavy baggage that we all need to carry because of what we want and don’t want when we love. But if you face it squarely, you’ll discover that love itself is actually really simple._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world's smallest and strongest setter is a real person named [Takeshita Yoshie](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yoshie_Takeshita). 
> 
> That one time Kuroo gave [the strawberry milk speech](http://justgintamathings.tumblr.com/post/4574032864/the-classic-strawberry-milk-speech-in-its) to Yaku and Yaku stopped talking to him for 24 hours.


	7. T+26 days

Yaku’s key chain is an orange cat hugging a volleyball, a souvenir he bought at Spring High last year. _It’s all wrong_ , Kuroo thinks as he unlocks the door to Yaku’s apartment. The first time he had to do this was a few hours after the car accident, when Yaku’s mother passed him Yaku’s shoulder bag to bring back from the hospital. His hand trembled so much that the key refused to fit into the keyhole. Then it refused to turn, refused to be extracted. But now he knows the finicky lock like it’s on his own door: insert the key, pull the cylinder out by a millimeter, turn it counterclockwise, open the door, hold the cylinder down, remove the key—all in one fluid motion. 

As usual, one of Yaku’s two cats, the black one, is waiting by the door. It meows at him. 

“Sup, Catsura, it’s me again. Sorry to disappoint you. I know you miss him. I miss him too, buddy. But guess what? If everything goes well, he should be back in a week or two. Ain’t that great?” 

It meows again, maybe agreeing with him, maybe disagreeing with him, maybe just begging for food. The cat bowls are almost empty, last filled the day before yesterday. In the bathroom, cat litter pellets are spilled all over the floor as they often are. Kuroo shakes his head and looks askance at Catsura. “Alright, which one of you did this? Was it Catoki? It was Catoki again, wasn’t it? Where’s that little rascal?” 

The white Persian cat is lazing in its favorite spot, next to the window, under the sun. It flicks its ears and glances at Kuroo briefly before it resumes its nap while Kuroo opens the window to let in fresh air. This place used to smell like Yaku, overwhemingly, suffocatingly so, but now it just smells like cats. 

He refills the cat bowls and changes the water, opens a can of wet food as part of their weekly treat, sweeps the bathroom floor and cleans the cat litter box. Finally he dusts the room that otherwise seems to be suspended in time, paused on December 24. A tidy bed, a few inclined books on the shelf, the last page of the monthly calendar, a wrapped present on Yaku’s desk. It looks like a large, hardcover book, and Kuroo’s heart aches every time he sees it. For what might’ve been and what will never be. 

Yaku slept at his place that night, and he wonders how much he could’ve changed if he cuddled Yaku for a little longer, pulled him in for a few more kisses, got up as well and accompanied him to campus. But it’s a pointless exercise, driven by nothing except anguish, the brain’s simulation of the infinite possibilities. 

 

 

The nurse greets him and informs him that Yaku is in the courtyard (“This is the first warm day we’ve had in a while, and he’s finally well enough to move around”). After thanking her, Kuroo finds his way to the courtyard. He hasn’t visited by himself since the day Nekoma lost the semifinal. Either he tagged along with the people scheduled to visit that day—Bokuto and the others from Fukuroudani, Inuoka and Fukunaga, Sugawara and Nishinoya via a video call, other Nekoma classmates, even Coach Nekomata and Naoi—or he dragged Kai along, sometimes Kenma, occasionally running into Yaku’s college classmates and people he didn’t recognize but gathered were Yaku’s middle school friends. He tried to convince someone to join him today, but Kenma is busy with college extrance exams, Bokuto is busy with volleyball practice, and Kai claims he has a date, which Kuroo suspects is a complete lie because before he hung up, he said, “You’re being a chicken again, Kuroo.” 

Yaku is on a bench near the koi pond in the courtyard, and beside him is a crutch. His leg injury isn’t permanent, thankfully, but Kuroo still feels a sharp pain in his chest when he sees it. The pain grows, constricts his throat when he discerns Yaku’s distant gaze at an empty spot above the pond. Kuroo hates it and hates himself for hating it, because it’s as if something or someone has whisked away the real Yaku, leaving behind a hollow shell that can never be filled. 

Yaku doesn’t notice him. He clears his throat, works his mouth, and says, “Are you cold, Yaku?” 

Yaku startles. Like someone lost and helpless, he searches Kuroo’s face for something to hold on to, his brows furrowing in confusion and a little bit of desolation. 

Kuroo feels a chill. “What’s wrong, Yakkun?” 

“Kuroo,” Yaku says in a quiet voice. “I think I remembered something.” 

It takes a few seconds for the words to register, and when they do, Kuroo gapes at Yaku. “You... What? I-Isn’t that a good thing?” 

Yaku looks away. “I don’t know. I’m just getting fragments. And they’re all mixed up. I don’t even know if they’re real.” 

“What? How can they not be real?” 

“I don’t know. I see this scene in my head, but I can’t tell if it really happened or if it was just a dream. Or if I’m making it up.” He hesitates. “Spring High. Prelims. I got injured in the match against Nohebi, didn’t I?” 

Kuroo’s heart is racing. “Yeah, you did. See? You remember something. It’s real.” 

“I know it’s real. Daishou mentioned it, so it doesn’t really count. What I don’t know is...” He looks up at Kuroo again, still searching for some sort of answer that Kuroo desperately wants to give him but can’t because he doesn’t know how. “I said I was fine, but you told me I was crazy. Did you?” 

“Did I?” _Shit._ “Did I say that? Uh, maybe I did. I think I also said something inane like, ‘You should let the captain look cool once in a while.’ Or something. I... Wait. Just because we don’t remember exactly what we said doesn’t mean it’s not real. I’m sure if we ask Kai, he’ll tell us a third version. That’s just... That’s just how memory works, right? That doesn’t mean it’s not real.” 

“But that’s exactly it. Memories aren’t facts. They’re fabrications. They reflect who we are now, not who we were then. At least that’s what Daishou said. He said he read about memory reconsolidation. About how memories are rewritten every time we recall them. We alter them, they alter us. So the safest memories are actually the ones we never recall at all. Except now I have no idea if I’m remembering things because I’m remembering them or because I’m just confusing them with what I want to remember. Things I wish happened but never actually did.” 

“What? Don’t listen to Daishou. I read about memory reconsolidation too. It’s not the content we’re changing, it’s the emotional impact. The memories are still real. They actually did happen. It’s just—” 

“No! You don’t get it, Tetsu! It’s the emotional part I’m talking about! You don’t know how—I have no idea if—” He stops, shutting his eyes in frustration, and takes a few deep breaths. “Sorry. Sorry, I...” 

“Yakkun, what did you call me just now?” 

“What?” 

“You said my name just now.” 

“I did?” 

_You did_ , Kuroo doesn’t say, recognizing now that it was a subconscious slip. _It’s been so long, Yakkun. So long since you said my name. So long since you lost your temper at me. I missed you so much._

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” A self-deprecating smile. “Just like everything else I don’t remember.” 

_No_ , Kuroo wants to say. _It’s not like everything else._ He wants to cup Yaku’s face in his hands and kiss all the pain away. He wants to place their foreheads together and cry the tears that they’re both choking back. But he doesn’t. Maybe Kai is right. 

“I’m sorry, Kuroo. I didn’t mean to lash out at you. I just... It’s so... I’m really confused right now.” 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Kuroo crouches down in front of Yaku to look into the hazel eyes that he loves so much. “You can yell at me. It’s okay. I can take it. You used to yell at me all the time.” 

_Sometimes you’re only pretending to be angry. Sometimes you really are angry. But getting yelled at is infinitely better than this strange, polite distance you’re putting between us._

“Kuroo,” Yaku says, almost whispers. “Why are you so nice to me?” 

Kuroo’s heart skips a beat. What should he say? What can he say? 

_Because I love you. Because I love you so much, it hurts._

Instead, he says, “Because you’re very important to me. Because I don’t want to lose you.” 

Is that the right answer? Is there even a right answer? They’re both true. 

Yaku moves his hand but seems bewildered by what he wants to do with it. Before he puts it down, however, Kuroo catches it. Yaku’s hand is cold, but that’s not why Kuroo is holding it tight between his hands, his eyes squeezed shut as he brings it to his forehead. He’s terrified, he finally realizes. Terrified that if he tells Yaku, he’ll get a blank look that formally rejects him and negates the long and short time they were together. That none of it was real. That there’ll be absolutely nothing he can do to win him back. 

But this can’t go on. He’ll have to tell him some day. He’ll definitely tell him one day. 

Just not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Article about memory reconsolidation](https://www.technologyreview.com/s/515981/repairing-bad-memories/), ironically about how to forget rather than how to remember.


	8. T-1 year

**April 17**

[09:17 PM] Kuroo: yakkunnn hows uni life  
[09:20 PM] Yaku: Hectic  
[09:25 PM] Kuroo: i miss u do u miss me  
[09:37 PM] Yaku: You must not be busy enough  
[09:38 PM] Kuroo: (゜´Д｀゜) 

_I miss you so much—I can’t breathe._

 

 

**May 3**

[03:36 PM] Kuroo: hey wanna go watch ih prelims next month?  
[03:39 PM] Yaku: Oh yeah, of course  
[03:40 PM] Yaku: Is Kai going too  
[03:41 PM] Kuroo: dunno ill ask him  
[03:59 PM] Kuroo: yeah hes going  
[03:59 PM] Kuroo: see u then?  
[04:01 PM] Yaku: Yeah

_Can I see you now?_

 

 

**June 7**

By the time he arrived at the city gymnasium, Kuroo and Kai were already in the stands, watching Nekoma’s warm-up session. He greeted Akane and Alisa in the adjacent row and took the seat next to Kuroo. 

“You made it,” Kuroo said, smiling at Yaku, hands tucked behind his head and long legs stretched out with his feet propped against the wall in front of him. 

Yaku set his bag aside, having come directly from a Sunday study session, and gazed at the court. Kuroo’s contented smile had disarmed him, left his heart racing for far longer than it should because he rushed up a few flights of stairs. 

_Why can’t I look at you when that’s all I want to do?_

The referee blew the whistle and called the captains forward. 

“It’s kind of weird to be up here,” Yaku observed. 

“Yeah,” said Kuroo. 

Nekoma was facing an old opponent, one that they had beaten twice before, but both teams had fresh blood this time. Inuoka was starting in the front row, next to a first-year wing spiker with a bright orange afro. The game started, and Yaku was about to comment on Shibayama when Kuroo spoke, arms folded across his chest. 

“You know, I was telling Kai, before you got here, that I haven’t seen you in three months.” 

“Three? I thought it was more like two.” 

“Two months and ten days.” 

Yaku paused. “Were you counting?” 

“Point is, I haven’t seen you in a long time.” Kuroo met his gaze, but Yaku couldn’t read it, couldn’t hold it without forgetting how to pump air into his lungs. 

Kai appeared to be engrossed in the game, oblivious to the exchange happening beside him. 

“I haven’t seen Kai in a long time either,” Yaku muttered. 

“You live too far away,” said Kuroo. 

“It’s just a few subway stops away.” 

“It’s nine stops on the Yamanote Line, and that’s not even the closest stop. All the other lines require transfers.” 

“Well, what do you want me to do? Move back here? I go to another university. What’s wrong with you today?” 

“I can’t even run into you at the grocery store. I ran into Kai like five times already.” 

“Just two,” said Kai. 

“I see your mom more often than I see you these days.” 

Yaku furrowed his brows. “What? Are you taking her class or something?” 

“No. I have a class in the same room right after hers. We chat sometimes. She misses you. You should go home more.” 

“What he means,” said Kai, “is that he misses you, so you should meet up more.” 

“Hey now. I miss you too, Kai. And Kenma. And Bokuto. And everybody. I miss everybody. We should all meet up more. Let’s go for ice cream after this and catch up.” 

“I’ll pass,” said Kai. “I made plans already.” 

“What? You say that after hearing my great speech?” 

Kai gave Kuroo a sharp look. “It was neither great nor a speech. Maybe next time.” 

Kuroo grimaced and glanced at Yaku. “It’s just you and me then. Ice cream?” 

Ice cream. It was just ice cream. It was just catching up. But it sure as fuck wasn’t going to help him get over his hopeless infatuation, except at this point, he had no idea if he should or ever could because space and time had absolutely no grip on his feelings that only intensified no matter what he did. 

“Okay,” said Yaku, his stomach fluttering a little. 

Kuroo’s mood lifted after that, or at least he stopped making asinine remarks about things that Yaku clearly couldn’t change (not really). They turned their attention to the match, commenting on everyone’s improvement and cheering whenever there was a good play. Nekoma won in two sets, and the excitable ones waved at them, jumping and shouting. Because of Nekoma’s placement at Spring High last year, this was their only match that day, so after chatting with them downstairs, Kuroo and Yaku bid them and Kai goodbye and headed to a nearby ice cream parlor. Ice cream turned into coffee, into dinner, into a conversation that lasted more than six hours altogether. They talked about the current Nekoma team, about the new college life, about the awful American presidential election, about earthquakes and the fragility of life, about the 2020 Summer Olympics in Tokyo... 

When they finally decided it was getting late, it’d started to rain. 

Yaku reached for his bag and glanced at Kuroo. “I’m guessing you don’t have an umbrella.” 

Flashing a lazy, toothy grin, Kuroo jiggled his pockets that showed the outline of a wallet, a phone, and some keys. “I’m totally prepared, man. I have an umbrella, a water bottle, a raincoat, some sandwiches for a picnic.” 

Yaku snorted, smiling in spite of himself, and opened his umbrella. “We can share this.” 

“Aren’t we going in different directions? It’s just a ten-minute walk to my place. I’ll be fine.” 

“It’s just ten minutes. I can walk with you.” Yaku stepped onto the sidewalk and raised his umbrella, the pitter-patter of rain mixing with the swoosh of passing cars. “Are you coming?” 

Kuroo seemed surprised by the offer, but he dipped his head, as if a little embarrassed, and closed his hands around Yaku’s to take the umbrella handle from him. “It’d be easier if I held it, wouldn’t it?” 

Painfully aware of their height difference, Yaku sighed in resignation and slipped his hands into his pockets, wondering what it would be like to lace their fingers together. He mumbled, “It pisses me off, but I guess it can’t be helped.” 

Kuroo nudged him. “It’s fine this way. Come on, let’s go.” 

For a while, they walked in companionable silence, splashing through puddles. Yaku pressed himself against Kuroo’s side to avoid the rain, but in truth, it was completely unnecessary and he knew it. Did Kuroo know? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe the gestures that amounted to nothing but provided a glimpse into euphoria were sufficient to accompany him for a lifetime.

_This is fine._

“Hey,” said Kuroo. “Wanna hear something?” 

“What?” 

“Some girl asked me out the other day.” 

Dread sunk into Yaku’s stomach and twisted his guts. “Oh,” he said. 

“I turned her down though.” 

Yaku stared at Kuroo, trying not to feel hopeful because that would be plain stupid. “Why?” 

“Because I don’t like her that way.” 

“What’s she like?” 

“You might know her, actually. Nekoma alum. We’re in the same major now, but I was never in the same class as her in high school. Apparently she was good friends with Yukino. Saw our matches a couple times when she was cheering for Yukino’s team.” Kuroo said her name. 

“Oh,” said Yaku. “She was the class representative my second year. She likes you? That’s... What does she see in you?” 

_What do I see in you?_

“Ugh, don’t remind me. Yukino was like, ‘Kuroo Tetsurou doesn’t deserve you because he’s a scheming bastard whose only merit is his talent for being obnoxious and whose only charm is his bed head that resembles a chicken butt gone feral.’” He tugged his hair. “Damn Yuki-chan, it’s not like I want this. Why did she have to be so vocal about it?” 

“It looks fine. I like it.” _Shit, did I say that out loud?_

Kuroo gaped at him. Flustered, Yaku tried to justify himself to the god of liability. 

“Well, it does. It’s stylish and has a personality.” _Dig your grave further why don’t you, Morisuke._ “I mean... I... It...” 

“Yakkun.” Kuroo’s expression softened. “Thanks.” 

“W-What for?” 

Kuroo shrugged and looked away. “Nothing in particular.” 

It explained nothing, but Yaku let it drop, glad that it was too dark for Kuroo to see his flaming cheeks. The street lamps dyed everything orange anyway. How did they get to this topic? 

“You didn’t make her cry when you rejected her, did you?” Yaku asked. 

“Huh? Oh, nah. She took it pretty well. We’re still casual friends. She said she always sort of knew that she wouldn’t have a chance, but she wanted to give it a try anyway. Something about learning that from watching all of our volleyball matches. I kind of admire her for that.” 

“I see...” 

Kuroo nudged him again. “What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Anyone you like?” 

“Uh...” What was he supposed to say? _You?_

They slowed to a stop, arriving at the apartment building where Kuroo lived. 

“Uh,” Yaku tried again. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk losing what little he had. But he couldn’t lie either. So he said, “No girls at the moment.” Would Kuroo even pick up on the subtlety? Did he want him to? It was probably something that only a psychiatrist would notice. 

Kuroo hummed and held out the umbrella. “Well, good night, I guess. Thanks for walking me back. Want to do this again next Sunday?” 

Next Sunday was the next round of the IH prelims. 

“Yeah,” said Yaku, thinking that even if they never went anywhere, he would still be happy with where they were now. “Let’s.” 

 

 

**July 13**

[12:28 PM] Kuroo: guess what  
[12:28 PM] Kuroo: im goin to osaka in aug  
[12:29 PM] Kuroo: summer school  
[12:29 PM] Yaku: What!! I’m jealous  
[12:30 PM] Yaku: Osaka has good food you lucky punk  
[12:30 PM] Kuroo: u want anything from osaka  
[12:31 PM] Yaku: As long as it’s not food pics  
[12:31 PM] Kuroo: food pics it is  
[12:32 PM] Yaku: Oiii

_Why do I find you so endearing?_

 

 

**August 7**

[10:08 AM] Kai: Kuroo delegated me to treat you to a birthday dinner tonight. Are you free?  
[11:05 AM] Yaku: I didn’t hear about this  
[11:10 AM] Kai: Well, now you have. A few other people are going too.  
[11:13 AM] Yaku: But my birthday’s tomorrow  
[11:15 AM] Kai: Kuroo informed me that you’ll be spending your birthday with your mother.  
[11:17 AM] Yaku: Where does he get this intel  
[11:24 AM] Kai: How does the Din Tai Fung in Shiodome sound for dinner?  
[11:26 AM] Yaku: Yeah sure

[11:06 AM] Yaku: What’s this birthday dinner thing  
[08:11 PM] Kuroo: what bday dinner thing  
[08:12 PM] Kuroo: is it ur bday  
[08:13 PM] Kuroo: hey its ur bday!!  
[08:13 PM] Kuroo: wait i thought it was tmr  
[08:14 PM] Kuroo: well happy bday from osaka anyway  
[10:22 PM] Yaku: lol thanks

_I should be happy. I should be happy, so why am I upset?_

 

 

**September 19**

Kai sipped his tea. “So what did you want to talk about? It’s unsettling to see you without much appetite.” 

Yaku stopped poking the half-eaten slice of cake with his fork. His heart was pounding like he was about to step into the spotlight to deliver the biggest speech of his life. A few hours ago, he’d texted Kai, asking if he was available to chat. After they met up at the cafe, they made small talk for a few minutes until they lapsed into an awkward silence while Yaku struggled with what to say next. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten the cake. It was too sweet. 

“Is this about Kuroo?” asked Kai. 

Yaku flinched and started to say no, but the consonant sound died away under Kai’s pointed look. Staring at the cake, he muttered, “Sort of.” When Kai didn’t say anything, he continued, “It’s just... I don’t know. Have you ever... like... you know... been in love?”

_How do I forget this feeling?_

“Not really, no. Why don’t you tell him?” 

“I don’t know. I wanted to, and I almost did, but then I got confused, so I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what he’s thinking. It’s completely different from being on the volleyball court. It’s like he’s Lev flailing and making my life impossible, except it’s a million times more personal. Sometimes I feel like I just misunderstood everything. Like I just read too much into it. But I can’t make it go away, so now I don’t know what to do.” 

“That makes two of you, you know.” 

“What? What do you mean?” 

Kai sighed. “I guess this is another way to interpret ‘love is blind.’ The ones deeply involved are the ones who can’t see the whole picture, or something. He thinks you’re mad at him, but he can’t figure out why. You’ve been finding excuses to avoid him lately, haven’t you?” 

“I... I’m not... I’m not mad...” 

“Look. I don’t know what happened, but it’s not something you can solve by avoiding him.” 

“I’m not avoiding him...” 

“Well, whatever it is you’re doing right now, it’s not working.” 

“Then what should I do?” 

“He likes you back. Keep that in mind.” 

Yaku could feel his mouth go dry. Kai rarely joked, let alone on a subject like this, so he knew he could believe him. He wanted to believe him, but a part of him was still arguing that Kuroo treated everyone the same way, hence there was nothing special about their relationship. But when he thought about the things Kuroo did and didn’t do or simply did differently, he realized that maybe he was the stupid one all along. 

 

 

**October 2**

[05:07 PM] Yaku: I’m getting two cats  
[05:07 PM] Yaku: Come meet them some time?  
[05:08 PM] Kuroo: !!!!!!  
[05:08 PM] Kuroo: ok (Ф∀Ф)

 

 

**November 26**

Yaku had just showered and changed into his pajamas when a knock came from his door. Furrowing his brows, he opened the door and blinked at his visitor. “Kuroo, what’re you doing here so late?” 

Kuroo gestured at the bulging plastic bag in his hand. “Bokuto made too much turkey.” 

“What? Turkey?” Eyeing the bag incredulously, Yaku stepped aside to let Kuroo into his apartment. “Why did he make turkey?” 

“He met this American exchange student who told him about Thanksgiving, and he became so enamored with the idea of cooking a whole turkey that he did it,” Kuroo explained as he took off his shoes. “Except that idiot bought the biggest turkey in the supermarket without realizing how much meat there was. He wanted me to eat half of it, but I’d already had dinner. Not that I could ever eat that much turkey. Since you have two cats, I figured you could help.” 

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to feed the cats turkey.” 

“What? No!” 

Yaku chuckled. “I’ll eat it, I guess. That’s not half the turkey, is it?” 

“No,” Kuroo replied, showing him the tupperware. “Three boxes of meat and one bag of cranberry sauce. This shit’s way too dry. Bokuto kept some, I took some, and he’s going to give some to Akaashi tomorrow. Maybe his volleyball team too. Imagine their faces.” 

“I can’t believe you came all the way to deliver some turkey. You could’ve told me over the phone to go pick it up tomorrow.” 

“Well, I also just wanted to see you,” Kuroo murmured. “Between midterms and the university festivals, I haven’t really seen you in the last three weeks. Should I put this in your fridge?” 

“Er...” said Yaku, his mind still trapped in the echo of what Kuroo said five seconds ago. “Are you hungry? We could eat some of that right now. Treat it as supper.” 

“Oh, I like that idea. Where do you keep your plates and utensils?” 

Kuroo strode into the small kitchen and followed Yaku’s directions to locate the items. As he prepared the light meal, Yaku peered around him, at first curious about the turkey and the sauce but soon distracted by how warm Kuroo’s body was and how his sweater shifted on his broad shoulders. His back was still that same solid presence, ever so dependable, and then like opposite poles of two magnets, Yaku leaned in and wrapped his arms around Kuroo’s waist. 

Kuroo froze. “Yaku?” 

“Can we stay like this for a little bit?” Yaku asked in a husky voice. 

After a beat, Kuroo placed the silverware on the counter and took Yaku’s hands in a warm grip, stroking the back of his hands with his thumbs. Yaku closed his eyes, breathing in the clean scent of Kuroo’s sweater, and wondered why he didn’t break the barrier earlier—when Kuroo swung by last month to meet the cats, when he realized it the first time a year ago, when there were so many other occasions that made him think _I love you very much_. 

Kuroo turned around, and Yaku gave him a puzzled look until he cupped his face in his hands and started to plant kisses soft and sweet like marshmallows on his forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks, and finally lips, where he lingered for the rest of the night.


	9. T+36 days

He remembers his first visit to Yaku’s house. It was early June, and the orange-red azaleas in the garden were in full bloom, demanding attention, but he only spared them a cursory glance, too concerned about Yaku’s health to admire them. He remembers his second visit as well, but at that time he was too excited about the liquid nitrogen ice cream to notice the evergreen shrubs of October. This is his third time here, and while he waits for Yaku’s mother to unlock the door, he studies the shrubs interspersed with yellow leaves. _Will they turn green again in the spring or will they fall?_

“Tetsurou-kun,” Yaku’s mother says, holding the door open for Yaku, who’s still on crutches. “Come on in.” 

“Oh, right. Excuse me.” 

Earlier at the hospital, he handed Yaku’s apartment key back to him, but Yaku stared at it, unable to recognize it, and asked apologetically if it was okay for him to go home for a few days first. His mother paused in the middle of packing his belongings and said gently: _of course_. 

“I can take that,” she says as she reaches for the duffel bag that Kuroo is carrying. “Thank you so much, Tetsurou-kun.” 

“It was nothing,” he replies. The duffel bag is bulky but light, holding a few pieces of clothing, a small blanket, and the presents, mostly stuffed toys, that accumulated over the past month. 

“Not just for this,” she clarifies. “For everything you’ve done. Why don’t you stay for dinner?” 

“Er, I couldn’t—” 

“Kuroo, stay for dinner.” Yaku’s expression softens. “My mom makes great sushi. I remember that.” 

“Do you like sushi?” she asks, and Kuroo knows then that he has lost to both mother and son. 

“I love sushi... Thank you.” 

She smiles and tells Kuroo to make himself at home. 

In the living room, Yaku is looking at the wall clock. “That’s new. When did you get that?” 

His mother stills. Kuroo remembers that Yaku was the one who bought it for her, and he wonders how she’s coping. Knowing, he discovered, is different from grasping, and no amount of knowledge can prepare them for moments that slap them in the face like this. 

“Oh,” Yaku says, reading their shock. “Sorry. I forgot again.” 

“No,” his mother asserts. “No. I just remembered. I mixed up the dates. This is what happens when people get old. They start to confuse things. I have a friend who accidentally referred to her daughter as her son. She has no sons. Can you believe that? I thought you were around when I got this clock, but you already left for college, so of course it’s new to you. You’ll find a lot of new things in the house. It’s like I’m living my second graduate life. Come on, let’s go up to your room. I haven’t touched it since you moved out.” 

Yaku throws Kuroo a baffled look, as if he can’t decide whether he should believe his mother or not, but Kuroo is only able to respond with a helpless shrug. Despite the gray hair she acquired in the last few weeks, the petite woman can’t possibly be older than fifty; Yaku must know the agility of her mind better than he does. 

_Is this what it feels like to protect by lying? Does it do more damage than good?_

Yet nothing has really changed in the house, Kuroo notes. The same rosewood furniture, the same penguin cushions on the couch (which Yaku explained two years ago, _Apparently the penguin is a physicist’s spirit animal—something about penguins sliding down inclined planes—but you’d think it should be the cat_ ), the same Newton’s cradle on the shelf, and the same photo display... The only thing that’s new is the photo from their high school graduation. 

“But why this one?” Kuroo whispers. 

He remembers how the photo was taken: Yaku’s mother asked Kai to take one for mother and son in front of the graduation banner, but Kuroo photobombed it just as they posed. He remembers Yaku yelling at him and shoving him to the side, but the shutter clicked the instant before that, when Yaku turned his eyes toward him as if spellbound. 

 

 

The next day, Yaku asks him to accompany him to his apartment. He has to relearn the address, the route, even the ritual-like steps to unlock his door. The black cat greets them, and Kuroo, trying not to think about how absurd it is, prepares to introduce the cats to their owner when Yaku asks, “Is one of them Catsura and the other Catoki?” 

“You remember?” 

Yaku shakes his head. “Well, I don’t remember getting them. When I was kid, I wanted two cats named Catsura and Catoki. My mom’s allergic to cats, so I had to wait. I don’t know why, but I’m kind of relieved that some parts of me are still the same.” 

_Not just some parts_ , Kuroo wishes he could say. _All of you are still the same. The whole._

Yaku continues, “But it’s a totally wild guess as to which one is which.” He makes a thoughtful sound and points at the black cat. “If I were naming him today, I’d call him Catsura and the other one Catoki. How do we compare, the me today and the me yesterday?” 

“The same,” Kuroo says. “Absolutely the same.” 

He grins, the most cheerful Kuroo has seen him in days if not weeks. “That’s good. Hey, Catsura, did you make a mess of the cat litter? You seem like the type who would do that.” 

The cat meows and follows Yaku into the apartment. As he looks around, picking things up and putting them down, Kuroo surveys the room along with him, attempting to view it through the eyes of a stranger. The red-white-green volleyball (that documents his years as a libero), the five-minute hourglass (that he uses to time the cup noodle), the tupperware (that really belongs to Bokuto but they always forget to return it), the anthology titled _Stories of Your Life and Others_ (that he borrowed from the library for a humanities class)... 

“What’s this?” Yaku asks, holding up the wrapped present. “Is this for me?” 

“Uh...” How do you explain that it’s probably a gift he prepared for someone else ( _you_ )? How do you explain when you’re not sure yourself ( _it might not be you_ )? “I don’t know,” says Kuroo. “Why don’t you open it? If it’s for you, then it’s for you and you’ll find out what it is.” 

“What if it’s not for me? How can we tell?” 

“Uh, well, since it’s in your room, it must have something to do with you. You can still open it. If it’s not for you, you can just wrap it up again.” 

Frowning, Yaku contemplates the present. Then he holds it out for Kuroo. “You open it.” 

“W-What?” 

“If it’s for me, I probably would’ve opened it already, unless it’s something I got after... you know. I have a feeling it’s not for me, and if it’s for anyone... it’s probably for you.” He hesitates. “But if it’s for my mom or something, I hope you won’t be offended.” He waves the present almost impatiently. “Open it. I want to know what’s inside.” 

Kuroo’s heart is racing, and he hopes Yaku won’t notice the tremble in his fingers when he takes the present and searches for an opening. His legs are also beginning to shake, so he sinks into the couch before he pulls the wrapping paper decorated with cats off the hardcover book. Yaku joins him, perhaps too interested in the book to notice that he’s pressing against him, their legs touching. 

It’s not actually a book; the black leather cover is that of a photo album. He glances at Yaku, who looks back with anticipation. Swallowing, he flips it open to the first page. 

There are just two photos on the first page, slanted, like a preview. In one, the two of them are smiling at the camera, heads together, arms around each other. In the other, Yaku is smiling into his cheek, giving a not-quite kiss. Both photos are from their first official date (though there were a lot more date-not-dates from before), and he doesn’t have to flip through the rest of the album to know what it’s supposed to be. 

Yaku is looking at him with round eyes. Shocked? Confused? Kuroo doesn’t know. He just knows that it’s too much to bear. He pulls Yaku into a tight embrace and buries his face into Yaku’s shoulder, his breath shuddering as the tears he held back for over a month rush out, mourning the times that have come and passed through his fingers like waves, like wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Stories of Your Life and Others_ is an anthology collection by [Ted Chiang](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ted_Chiang). You can read the eponymous "Story of Your Life" [here](https://mathisgasser.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/ted-chiang_story-of-your-life_2000.pdf).


	10. T=0

The first time he met him was in his first middle school match. His team lacked a libero, so when they lined up for the match, he was intrigued by the tiny #8 dressed in a black uniform with teal sleeves. Interest became indignation, however, when #8 returned his first attack, diving and rolling over his shoulder in one fluid move. The ball struck the top of the net and fell on his side despite his frantic swing to save it. He scowled at #8, but the libero was smiling at his teammate, replying _I got lucky_ after his teammate said _Nice, Yaku_. Fueled by a childish desire for vengeance, he kept hitting the ball to #8 until his coach requested a time-out and urged him to stop sending the ball to the defense expert especially now that the opposing team was no longer marking him, calling out instead _let Yaku deal with that loser #6_. 

How would he have reacted if someone told him back then that he would one day fall in love with that libero? Did it happen the moment he entrusted his back to him? Or did it happen the first time he looked up at him? Or maybe it’d been there since the beginning. Their middle school teams never played against each other again, but he spotted him at every tournament: when he was sitting with his teammates in the corner, when he was watching the games in the stands, when he was leaving the gymnasium after a match... _It’s him again_ , he complained to Kenma once. _Who_ , Kenma asked. _Him_ , he replied, pointing at a crowd down the hallway. _No idea who you’re talking about_ , Kenma said. 

 

 

_It still feels surreal_ , Kuroo thought, watching the person lying next to him. It wasn’t the first time he saw Yaku asleep, and it wasn’t the first time they shared a bed, but he could stare forever at the face buried partly under the covers. He glanced at the clock and brushed his fingers against Yaku’s cheek. Yaku stirred, eyelids fluttering. 

“Morning, you,” Kuroo said when Yaku finally opened his eyes, blinking. 

“Ngh... What time is it...” 

“Almost seven.” 

Yaku burrowed under the covers again. “So early...” 

“You asked me to wake you up earlier than usual.” 

“I meant seven thirty...” 

“Your nine a.m. classes spoiled you. Ours start at eight thirty.” 

“I know...” 

“But that means we get to hang out for a bit before you have to leave.” Kuroo tugged Yaku close, twining their legs together. Yaku raised his eyebrows at him. Grinning, Kuroo asked, “Where’s my Christmas present?” 

“I’ll give it to you tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Kuroo exclaimed. “Tomorrow’s not Christmas anymore.” 

“It’s not a Christmas present anyway.” 

“But I want a Christmas present.” 

Yaku kicked him. “What’s the difference?” 

“Then you’re not getting your present today either.” 

“It’s probably something stupid.” 

“Hey! Have some faith in me.” 

Smiling, Yaku ruffled his hair. “I’ll like it.” 

He took Yaku’s hand and planted a kiss on his inner wrist. “You know,” Kuroo said, snuggling closer. “Sometimes I still can’t believe this is happening.” 

“Well, it’s happening.” 

He chuckled into the crook of Yaku’s neck. “I still remember the first time I saw you.” 

“First year of high school?” 

“Earlier than that.” 

“Oh yeah, you mentioned something about middle school before.” 

“Remember that one time you were telling Shibayama about the idiot who kept hitting the ball to you in middle school?” 

“Yeah?” 

“That was me.” 

Yaku gaped at Kuroo, and then he snorted, shoulders shaking as he laughed. “That was you? What were you thinking?” 

His face warmed. “I just wanted senpai to notice me, dammit.” 

“You’re so dumb,” Yaku said, pulling Kuroo in for a quick kiss. “Was that why you were such a pain in the ass all throughout high school?” 

“Maybe... Pretty sure you got back at me for that a few times. Like when you sicced the two drama club gorillas on me just because you didn’t want me to find out you were sick.” 

“I did that? No, I didn’t. Are you talking about Amachi? What did he do? I always wondered.” 

“He told me their club president was looking for ‘hairstyle inspirations.’ It was traumatizing.” 

“Really? That’s pretty funny.” 

“Thanks for laughing at my expense, Yakkun.” 

“Why are we reminiscing anyway? Shouldn’t we do that only when we’re like seventy?” 

“Seventy? That’s, what, more than fifty years from now? Holy shit, half a century. That’s so far away.” Kuroo paused. “Hey, do you think we’ll still be together when we’re seventy?” 

“No idea. I don’t even know what’s going to happen tomorrow.” 

“Hmm... I know what’s going to happen tomorrow.” 

“What?” 

“It’s going to be like today.” 

“No, it’s not. I have class today. I don’t have class tomorrow.” 

“So don’t go to class today.” 

“I can’t do that. What’s the weather like outside, by the way? It’s kind of dark in your room.” 

Kuroo lifted a corner of his curtain and peered at the gray-white sky. “Snowing like crazy.” 

“Seriously?” Yaku sat up and leaned over Kuroo to look out the window. “Ugh. I should probably get going then.” 

“No!” Kuroo threw his arms around Yaku’s shoulders and pulled him back down. “Don’t go!” 

“Argh. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re done with your semester, but I’m not.” 

“It’s the last day before winter break. It’s practically winter break. Skip it. Stay here with me.” 

Yaku stopped wriggling and locked their lips, giving Kuroo a deep kiss that left him in a daze. “I’ll be back this evening,” Yaku said as he rolled out of bed. 

“That’s not fair, Morisuke.” Kuroo sighed, burying his face in the pillow while Yaku’s arm slipped out of his hand. 

“Love you.” 

Kuroo waved. “Love you more.”


	11. T>∞

Yaku remembers, when he leaned on the crutch, the instant he stepped on someone’s foot and lost his balance, the dread and frustration and guilt from having to leave the court. He remembers, when he saw his mother bounding down the stairs, the terror and helplessness that overwhelmed him the moment his mother slipped on wet rocks on a hiking trip and nearly tumbled down the slope. He recalls snippets with no beginnings or ends or context: fireflies on a summer night, Kuroo’s bare back under a blue sky, Lev hitting his head on a low ceiling, Kuroo and Bokuto dogpiling him... He can’t pinpoint it but he knows he experienced it before: Kuroo’s lips against his, their fingers interlaced, bodies moving together.

It’s maddening—still, months later—to know that there once was but not know what it was. Kuroo catches him sometimes staring into space, teetering on the edge of the abyss, and brings him back every time by enfolding him in his arms. Any ire that arises because of lost memories dissolves when he’s engulfed in that familiar warmth, so he simply holds on.

Remembrance, he discovers, is akin to a jigsaw puzzle without a reference or all of the pieces. At first, the few pieces that turn up don’t have colors or patterns and comprise nothing more than flimsy paperboard with odd-sized tabs that make him question if they even belong to the same story, any story. Seeing the photo album didn’t conjure up the whole image, but it painted the pieces, supplied the frame, and told him _the picture is us together_.

It feels right then, when Kuroo says _You don’t know how much I love you_ , to reply _I love you more, Tetsu_. Like it’s the answer that’s always been part of his blood and bones.

He jokes about it (“It’s like we can go on a first date a second time”), bitches about it (“Trying to remember this stupid shit is like trying to shit but not able to shit”), but at the end of the day, when he’s kissing Kuroo, he learns to forget about it, focusing instead on what he has.

And he finally understands what Daishou said a while ago on his way out: _Sorry, but we really don’t get along with your Kuroo_. He didn’t mean _your team_ ; he meant _you and no one else_.

 

 

They move in together, to a one-bedroom apartment about halfway between their universities at the beginning of the new school year. Yaku missed his final exams at the end of January but obtained permission to retake them in March while Kuroo barely passed his. For most of their spring vacation, Kuroo practically lived at Yaku’s place, proving to be a source of comfort and distraction at the same time. Yet he still smiled like someone whose dream came true when they signed the lease for the new apartment.

_I get to see you everyday now, Yakkun._

_Haven’t you been seeing me everyday for the past two, three months?_

_But for good this time._

Yaku sighs when he steps out of the kitchen and finds Kuroo shining a laser pointer at the floor for the cats to chase. “Stop bullying the cats,” he says. 

Kuroo looks up, sitting cross-legged beside the box that he’s unpacking, and extends his arm. “Come here.”

“What?” Yaku reaches for Kuroo’s hand, which pulls him close.

“What do you think the cats see when we shine a laser pointer?”

“A moving dot that they can never catch? I don’t know.” He ruffles Kuroo’s hair. “Stop tormenting the cats and go back to unpacking. Or come help me out in the kitchen.”

Kuroo jumps to his feet. “I’ll help out in the kitchen. Man, it’s nice to have a real dining table now. We don’t have to eat at your dinky little desk anymore.”

Yaku glowers at Kuroo and turns his head away when Kuroo leans in for a kiss.

“Your desk is great,” Kuroo murmurs, chuckling, and kisses Yaku’s neck instead.

“Whatever... You’re lucky that I sort of agree. At least now I won’t accidentally spill things over my keyboard and—” Yaku stops and stares at Kuroo, who gives him an inquiring look.

 

* * *

 

          Kuroo: guess where i went today  
          Yaku: where  
          Kuroo: dotonbori  
          Yaku: .,nmk,’/;  
          Kuroo: now now yakkun, there’s no need to be jealous  
          Yaku: bmnm,.,mnm,./??  
          Kuroo: i only ate takoyaki  
          Yaku: lkl;  
          Kuroo: ok ok i bought some stuff for you too  
          Yaku: ykuli;’p[  
          Kuroo: ...are you really that upset?  
          Yaku: ah  
          Kuroo: ?  
          Yaku: sorry, I spilled water over my keyboard just now  
          Yaku: so I was... wiping it  
          Kuroo: you mean i was talking to myself this whole time??????????  
          Yaku: that’s fucking hilarious I’m dying over here  
          Kuroo: FUCK THIS IS SO EMBARRASSING I’M DELETING ALL OF THAT  
          Yaku: NO DON’T I’M SCREENCAPPING IT

 

* * *

 

“I just remembered,” Yaku says and then laughs. “I spilled water over my keyboard once and you thought I was responding to you in chat.”

There is a beat, and Kuroo’s face turns red. “You don’t have to remember that!” he blurts out and cringes as if he regrets saying it.

Yaku just laughs even as tears prick his eyes. “No. I’m going to remember all of it. Every stupid little thing you did.”

_And everything we did together, for each other. Everything._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that this is complete, I can confess that when I started working on this at the end of March, I wrote 500 words or so then PROMPTLY TRASHED IT because I didn't think I'd have the stamina to finish it. 24 hours later, I was writing it again because I decided the story wasn't so bad, and 2 weeks later I got really into it. The rest is history. This is the longest piece I've finished in years. Thank you everyone who commented, left kudos, read and enjoyed it. *passes out in the trash heap
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ritzfics) | [tumblr](https://aritzen.tumblr.com/) | [writing journal](http://ritzfics.dreamwidth.org/tag/fic:+nekoma+blues)


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